Fall Into Place
by StarzAngelus
Summary: Mamoru can't quite remember... Set in R arc, 2nd season, One-shot, COMPLETE.


_Author's Note: Little one-shot inspired by... fitting because I don't remember! :) Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I do NOT own Sailor Moon._

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**Fall Into Place**

_It has always been a common occurrence, of that he is absolutely certain. Sometimes he doesn't know what is a dream or what is real._

--

His history instructor is giving a demonstration, dressed in full armor, swinging the sharp blade in large crude arcs. The students are fascinated, excited to learn of a period in time when men fought for honor, often until death. He speaks of a dim era, a dark point in human history when lands were rampaged by filthy barbarians, driven by the need in their cruel and savage minds. The people were primitive, superstitious, ignorant, believing in their childlike fantasies of magic and enchantments.

Mamoru thinks that this is all wrong. He hears nothing, for all he sees is glory and beauty and light. His dark blue eyes watch the blade, curving back and forth and he knows that he could do much, much better.

That evening he arrives home, frustrated and uneasy and alone. He goes immediately to his books, grasping angrily at their pages, scanning their words, searching for wars that were never fought and lands that never existed. His books would never lie. It isn't until the first rays of golden light touch his weary eyes that he realizes what he is doing. He prepares for another day, the lack of sleep being pushed aside, and thinks of how to approach his instructor, how to explain to him that people used to fight for love.

As he enters the rowdy and energetic class, he forgets all about it.

* * *

"What do you keep looking at? Do you see a ghost or something?"

A gentle rumble of a laugh follows, and Mamoru tries to look nonchalant. He blinks the feeling away.

"Motoki," he says, motioning towards the dark red booth in the corner. "Didn't someone used to sit there? A group of people perhaps?"

Motoki frowns but it never quite reaches his bright eyes. "Since when? As far as I can remember, no one ever sits there." He tries to smile, though worry overcomes his kind features. "Are you doing well, Mamoru? I hate to say it but you've been very different lately. Today you look as if you haven't slept a wink! And you kept glaring at Mr. Nakamura, rolling your eyes at his every word!" He sets down his dishtowel. "Are you all right?"

Mamoru stares at his unfinished coffee, wrenching his mind for an explanation. How will he explain to his friend that he could have sworn that the vacant red booth was once occupied daily? That the red booth was important, that it brought life to this quiet arcade… that it was the reason that he came everyday. Suddenly, he feels extremely foolish. He must have been thinking of something else. He gulps down the coffee in hopes of waking up.

He sighs. "Don't listen to me, Motoki. I've just been a little sleep deprived is all. Baffles the mind."

The bell that announces a new customer interrupts their quiet conversation and they both turn to see a young girl confidently walk up to the counter. Her legs are long, her strides are graceful, and her chestnut hair is held up in a messy yet elegant ponytail. She smiles prettily at Motoki, "Cheeseburger with no onions please. And a large chocolate shake."

"Coming right up," Motoki replies in that cheerful manner that only people like him could muster.

The girl smiles gratefully and turns away. She begins to walk toward the elusive red booth and Mamoru's heartbeat slowly speeds up. Almost immediately she takes a small stumble in her steps and he sees the slight shake on her head before she turns to sit at a table-for-two near the jukebox. Mamoru can scarcely breathe.

"Do you know her?" he asks, hoping that there is no strain in his voice. Motoki doesn't seem to notice.

"Nah," he responds, pouring the chocolate shake. "She's actually new here. She came in here the other day but I haven't gotten her name yet. Nice girl, though."

Mamoru only nods and restrains the urge to look at her again. He doesn't want to give into the feeling so he mumbles an excuse to Motoki about studying, and places some bills on the counter.

As he rushes towards the doors, he doesn't notice the girl watching his every step. He doesn't look back.

* * *

He doesn't want to be there, but for the sake of pleasantries he merely stands stoically as opposed to stiffly.

The auditorium looks as if a purple and silver disco ball exploded and conveniently had its bits spread out in "decorations." The girls are primly dressed and the boys are in their best slacks. It is a celebration for Tokyo's most gifted students… or something of that sort… but Mamoru was never one to boast or even party.

He has successfully avoided the female population, noticing their hopeful stares as he passes by, straightening their backs and puffing out their chests. There is some sort of unwritten rule in which the males are the ones required to ask for a dance, and even though it seems a little unfair and biased, he takes comfort in it, instead managing to make small talk with the chaperoning professors and his fellow students. As far as he is concerned, he is only here to make an appearance (and drink cheap punch).

It is her dress that makes her stands out, if not he would have never noticed. It is a plain white, strapless gown that ends modestly below her knees, her silver-strapped shoes a seemingly strange choice but exceptionally appropriate. Her golden hair is let down, flowing elegantly down her back, and her bright blue eyes watch the couples attentively, an occasional smile lighting up her pretty face.

Instinctively, his feet move and in a moment he is at her side. She tries to hide her shock, but her gaping mouth betrays her, and Mamoru feels an unintentional glee in the back of his mind that he is the cause. In an almost regal manner, he holds out his hand and she hesitantly accepts, gliding them smoothly to the dance floor. He is aware of the stares, feeling the glares, but he doesn't care. It is his moment and again that familiar feeling he has been trying to forget briefly returns.

"You're a really good dancer," she says shyly. She fumbles in a few of the steps but he lets it go, knowing that he is in a worse condition for not knowing her name.  
"You're aren't too bad yourself," he replies and gives her his most charming smile.

A light pink tinges her cheeks and she looks away in an attempt to hide it. "But not as good as you," she whispers.

Suddenly the good feeling is gone, and like that day weeks before with his instructor, he feels, knows that this is all wrong.

It feels like his sanity is fleeing, like he is running in a dark room. The girl looks as if she doesn't know whether to enjoy the attention she receives for dancing with _the_ Chiba Mamoru, or run away in fear. He takes the moment to study her face: pretty, well-proportioned, blue eyes, pink lips… yet it is not enough. Her eyes are no longer as bright nor her hair as golden and her smile is not as enchanting… there is no glow. She is an empty breeze with no force when it is a potent wind he wants to blow him off his feet.

He is about to ask her name when he realizes that it no longer matters. They finish their slow dance, not bothering to look at her again, and excuses himself from the festivities. He never remembers the dance again.

* * *

It looks familiar but he guesses its because he has strolled through the street many times before. The window to the Osa-P Jewelry store is impeccably clean, allowing all pedestrians to admire the fine collection of jewels and other fine items. It does not have a large selection but the jewels are pristine and moderately-priced. He has no idea what he is looking at, or more importantly, what he is waiting for. The street is beginning to get crowded when he abruptly loses his balance and instinctively reaches out to steady whatever has almost knocked him over.

He sees her golden crown of hair before he hears her soft, "Oomph!" and startled clear, blue eyes look up to him in surprise.

Her face can only be described as shocked -- cheeks flushed, soft bangs fluttered across a smooth forehead. She has the most peculiar hairstyle yet it is somehow… _familiar_… and his mouth opens because he knows that his words are supposed to come next, but she beats him in a jumble of apologetic words.

"Gomen nasai! I am so, so very sorry! I didn't see you! I am such a stupid girl… Please forgive me…" There is patting and bowing and pouting.

But he doesn't hear a thing. There is a discomfort in his chest as if he has been cheated out of his own game. Whatever it is, it has been broken and the pieces now fall in a shadowy clutter. He scrutinizes her in silence for taking away the gentle order and there is heat in his cheeks, and he holds back a scream.

His eyes hover to her hair.

"Look, _Odango Atama,_" he grits, backing away. "I would appreciate if you just left me alone. Next time, you should watch where you're--"

He doesn't finish as she angrily narrows her eyes and stomps a foot indignantly. There are several words she is ready to let free but she merely glares and shuts her mouth firmly. Her calm façade angers him for some incomprehensible reason and the need for her aggressive reaction is almost vital.

She spins angrily, nose in the air and he hears a muttered, "Jerk!" as she walks away.

He stands stunned in front of the jewelry store for several minutes, pondering the strange encounter with the silly girl. He has calmed down, but the almost seething anger that had boiled in him only moments before has now slowly ebbed away. It confuses him immensely yet he can't quite convince himself that it was unjustified.

He feels the warm sun on his back again and the feeling, _that_ feeling has now settled, now basking in its soothing grasp. When he finally decides to go home, there is a slight skip in his step. Everything has fallen back into place, or will soon be.

He smiles.

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_Please review._


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